


querencia

by iyanana



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Profanity, So basically, actually im gonna continue writing this but in a separate works because i can :"), and keith is a biker dude, lance loves nature, pretty much the whole plot line, suicide/death mention, to relax or something like that, who likes to go out in nature, will definitely rewrite in the future tho bc i have more i wanna explore with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15334992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iyanana/pseuds/iyanana
Summary: Lance has a home. Near the woods. In the midst of the forest, where he strolls the lacunal, craggy roads, barefoot in the evening, protecting a burning candle in his palms. He goes out about every night to see the stars, lightly graze his fingers against the moon, and just be in the moonlight with the rustles of the evergreens and the soundtracks of the ones with free feathers. It has been so ever since, until someone, with a deafening fire, yet mute demeanor became present nearly every night. Even the nightfall they both called their own could tell that it was only a matter of time before they held a candle and the feelings of the universe under the moon—with their own two hands.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> mini bang's tumblr: https://www.keithminibang.tumblr.com  
> artist: https://www.jeiroh.tumblr.com (link to art will be added asap)

   What does the word “moon” mean?

   According to the one of the many Google search journeys Lance ventured on, there were three main definitions: the natural satellite of the earth, seen by reflected light from sun, to behave or move in a listless and aimless manner, or to act in a dreamily infatuated manner.  
   And as much as Lance was labelled as the local hopeless romantic, he was certainly more attracted to the satellite pinned up there in the sky that would visit almost every night, than the action of being in a “dreamily infatuated manner.” (Though, don’t think he hasn’t attempted writing multiple poems using the word in that way.)  
   Today was one of those days where he was a bit fed up from all the typewriter clicking and he decided to go a bit more old-school by digging through his precious belongings for a journal, one of the few his Mamá had gifted him, and one of the special pens he owned that suited his fancy, one that one of his sisters had given him as well. Because, oh, as passionate as he could be, he had a soft heart with a fondness for words, pure sensitivity to emotions, and was always speechless with unfathomable thoughts that he still managed to write down. Sometimes.  
   Even with the somewhat minor change in plans, the dreamer executed his plan for that night. Once he had a sip of tea, pouring the portion he had brewed into his bottle, he grabbed the small backpack of his, put it over his shoulder, slid off his slippers, and sauntered out the door, entering the chilly breeze embracing every single detail outside his place.  
   What most or at least a good portion of the people he met did not understand, was that he wasn’t very affected by the cold. Not that he strived to be a wannabe Elsa living by the mantra, “the cold never bothered me anyways,” but he’s been strolling along the cold, rocky roads for quite a few years now, in minimal coverage from his clothing (as his “walking wardrobe” is mainly made up of tanks, short sleeves, shorts, and thin clothes) and he hasn’t caught any severely problematic colds or anything similar to it. He was very grateful, at that.  
   And although the rubble on the ground remained bone-chilling heatless, he didn’t bother mentioning how he found the feeling of sauntering on gravel grounding and almost therapeutic. It was one of those supposed mythical things where it connected, per se, you to the earth and mother nature, which was something that took some time for Lance to believe, but here he was, feeling genuine, alike the moment.  
   Gravitating away from his shelter, he headed east, towards the pines and the evergreens, flushed with mints and camouflage. Their color was never changing, thriving forever, and it always seemed and appeared baffling to the wanderer, that one could contain such vivid shades for such a while. He’d gotten used to the fickle moods of the regular trees back in the town and the cities that even now he hasn’t been accustomed to it.  
   The atmosphere that day was slightly foggy, a serene breeze of fresh oxygen sweeping his worries off their feet. It hid with the cloudy, somewhat gloomy skies that day, which was on borderline rainy day appearance; or as he preferred to call it, one of the angels’ weeping days.  
   Behind the trees that accompanied the sides and edges of the roads were the slopes going down, and it held Lance up high in an elevation of a mountain, or the slopes going upwards, composed of rocks and boulders that were overwhelming, mammoth, ones that made him quite cautious of the moments, as it was, definitely, life-threatening if it was to fall.  
   But all of it was gloomy; all of it was tranquility. And it all was normal. As Lance liked to make it seem so anyways, although his hands weren’t cradling a scented candle around this time, which was his usual routine. No one could carry a candle and write simultaneously, though. It was the only somewhat irregular thing that day, but he lived and he learnt that nothing really did last forever.  
   Not after long, he reached an area where the lanky plants were bare, leaving a comfortable, suitable space of flat dirt for him, just by the side of the road. It was a plain semi-circle beside the path of rocks, sticking out between the trees. There wasn’t exactly anything extraordinarily spectacular of it, but he thought that the view was particularly so.  
   Because the trees were absent, that left this, maybe, odd gap between the midst of them, but they were only blocking the celestial sight from his field of vision, which was merely an absolute blessing to the eyes.  
   “You just love to make me hurt, don’t you.” He spoke soft and low into the void, into the unknown, into the vast place and the vast space and the thin air that circulated across the world.  
   He felt like a king, a god himself, towering over everything, rising against all. Certainly, there were more requirements as to receiving a crown and riches and a throne cut and engraved out of diamond, but standing atop a mountain, higher than the flat land beneath him, where most people were, was empowering. Breathing in the same air as heavenly skies was empowering. Seeing eye-to-eye with the sun drowning in brash ribbons of dusk was marvelous. Holding your chin up high, courageous and lionhearted, just like Mamá had told you to, through all the hardships you had gone through, saying, “You would make it, you would make it!” That, too, was, more importantly, very fantastic.


	2. two

   He collapsed, cross-legged onto the dirt and bits of chipped rock underneath him. His hands soon gripped onto his knees before he decided, surely enough, that it was about the perfect time. He shrugged off his bag and placed it beside him, opening it to pull out his bottle, journal, and pen.

   No one really knew for sure what Lance was out there for, and neither did he, really. No one knew what exactly his journal was, but then again, he didn’t either. His previous pages were yearning doodles of home, people, a feeling or two, and sometimes, just a memory or a thought or both. The rest of the page was filled up and crowded with sloppy, but exceptionally pretty cursive writing that Lance had adopted over the couple years once he hadn’t had anything else to really worry about. The journal’s contents wasn’t something he worried about much, too, in his opinion. He never understood where certain things came from, the things he ended up getting on the page, but he decided once that nothing had to make sense and didn’t bother since then. He assured himself that those things he drew were just from the void in his brain and that the things that he wrote were just song lyrics he suddenly remembered or just thoughts he had to write down because they sounded beautiful, even though there was the inevitable chance that they didn’t make sense.

   He wished to give the thing some variety, but he’d have to do it later. As of then, he let his mind wander and ponder, and he recalled his first time out here like that, like this, the questions that really made him feel something and think. Maybe it sounded stupid to some, but it was one of those heartfelt things someone as sensitive and soft as Lance was and would be into.

_“Alright, guys, stay in line, stay in line. Try to stay on the trail and near everyone else. You guys don’t want to stumble and fall on the side of the road. Don’t burn yourselves either.”_

_Kid Lance delicately peered into his candle, molded into the silhouette of the miniature metal cup, entertained and satisfied with the ongoing drop of flame, jumping and leaping and swaying and dancing and popping here and there so spontaneously, without much effort, shedding peeks of bright, warm flashes of color occasionally that matched the everlasting warmth in his hands that he liked quite very much. His skin and fingertips didn’t recognize what it felt like to tire from the ecstasy and the touch of it all. The rush of heat and happiness trickled along his skin through his veins and his bones and whatever else was left inside of it all and it fed his heart and his head. He wanted to be here forever, he wished to be here forever - he loved the place, the fresh air, the feeling, the candles, the anticipation and excitement and the unexpected to come. He loved trailing along his thoughts going in and out and skipping on cobblestone and the familiar but comfortable dark with the reassurance that these were the kind of memories he knew he would live off in the future and the ones he knew belonged in thrown together journal entries and grainy old polaroid pictures with something written at the bottom with somewhat faded black sharpie. These were the moments he knew he would tell his mom, his dad, his sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and every other single relative - or anyone else he probably knew, really. These were the times with the same classic and unforgettable and addicting feeling you would have with campfires or bonfires with your friends, twisting and turning sticks until the fragrant of marshmallows and perhaps even s’mores stung you, until the laughter of your lifelong friends rang in your ears and the only thing you could really focus on was someone’s arm around you as they bent over with amusement, clutching a beer bottle, turning to you with the illumination and the glory only the sun had on their face, because at that moment, everything was perfect; it seemed so._

_Everything else was a bore. The muted, hushed chatter of his groupmates was sliced when their leader scuffed the bottom of their shoe on the ground, swiping the floor with their shoe to clear of any rocks or dry leaves. Everyone’s focus altered, turning to the sudden sound, but with one gesture, everyone began taking a seat. “In a circle, everyone, in a circle. Take your time, don’t get hurt.”_

_He almost couldn’t hear what they had said. It was so solemn and soft and gentle and so easy to break - fragile, but his relaxed inhales and exhales brought him to what felt like a very important point in the circle. He didn’t want to explain it, but it was one of those things that you didn’t really need to explain because you couldn’t. It was a partial heart and gut feeling._

_And as much as he wanted to savor and store each and every second of it inside his head, he couldn’t. He couldn’t recall it all, what they said, what they did, not even the topic of their discussion. He favored one of the final parts, though, with the climax coming through, their leader leaning in as everyone began to follow, whispering, “Now, tell what feeds you with courage, determination. . . and blow out your candle to send some wishes into the world.”_

_“My friends, stuffed animals, and my mom gives me courage and determination. I wish to find my dad someday.”_

_One flicker. One withered into the wind._

_“My family and best friends and food give me courage and determination. Oh, also my favorite, uh, boy group. I wish to, mmm, I guess, live a happy life.”_

_Another gone and dissipated into wisps._

_Everyone turned to each person and candle, bright pupils dragging their awed gaze to each candle that ceased fire. This time, it was Kid Lance’s turn._

_He looked between some people and swallowed, staring at the mesmerizing. . . mess in front of him, from temperature to feeling. He took a deep breath, announcing, “Everything. Anything. The good and the bad. The better and the worse. People, places, animals, objects, things that don’t exist. I wish to wish on.”_

   And he did.


	3. three

   It was a love and hate relationship with monotony, really. Maybe.

   The next days, like any other days where chaos wasn’t evident, were spent in the forest. Same time, same place, same intention. But he loved it, all of it, despite how much he didn’t really favor routines, but he’d absolutely rather not call it that. There was always some spontaneity in everything, as much as he hated it as well.

   The most nearest thing to odd or startling that ever occurred was merely the sight of an animal or its waste, as none of them bothered or cared to appear, much more literally shit on his spot or do so in front of him. But oddities and irritance aside, it made Lance feel like he really was alone-and don’t get him wrong, he hated it, but right there was only where and when he didn’t mind it for once.

   So it was just a simple, totally harmless slap in the fucking face to hear something not so normal, very odd, and so much more startling.

   It was that time when Lance remembered those old 80’s and 90’s beach movies, the nostalgic looking ones with the warm, saturated colors and the teal, emerald waves and the funky looking boards and the “killer waves.” The ones with the bright outfits and the joyful people that never faced a thing because everything seemed so much better on a beach. And although it wasn’t the exact description for it, it more necessarily reminded him of Teen Beach Movie, the one that his nieces wouldn’t stop blabbering about when it was first shown on Disney Channel.

   Why Teen Beach Movie? Out of all of the regular surfer-beach movies, that pertained to be the most interesting, yet cliché one, in many ways. The thing that came to mind without ease, though was the biker gang that bust into the hut of all the happy surfers.

   He would most certainly consider himself a beach boy, with a love for the ocean or the beach or the pool, even just a bubble bath, who very much enjoyed kayaking or jet skiing or water boarding with the swimmer body of his. But it started concerning him greatly at this point, as he felt as if he was in a worse version of the movie, when his heartbeat was suppressed by the uncomfortable, but boastful revving of an engine.

   He feared that maybe, just like the movie, he had woken up on the wrong side of the beach, or in this case, the bed, and now he’d been thrown into some kind of alternate universe. Definitely not a movie, though, as he didn’t watch anything similar to the night before.

   He pursed his lips and knitted his brows together just slightly, scanning his surroundings before looking down at the candle in his palms. The sun sank quickly, in a rush to get to the other side of the world, so if he blew it out, it would be-

   The noise became more deafening, illumination rounding the corner, when, in a panic, Lance bid his farewell to the only source of light for him. Leaning against the flipside of the tree, he waited for the motor to shut down, before peeking a bit at whomever it may have been.

   Even without much brightness, it wasn’t a miss to instantly notice the loud flare of the bike, a flashing firefighter red with a mustard yellow strike streaking across the side. He didn’t know if he was dumb or he was supposedly living under an actual rock or what, but the bike sported the type of look that Lance hadn’t seen before. He was guessing it was some advanced, foreign thing, as it didn’t have wheels, or any metal on the bottom to support it. Perhaps it had been some hoverbike, he thought; it seemed like a decent name.

   The person atop the bike was sitting around the same area Lance would be in, who seemed mysterious in their own way. And somehow, with the kind of appearance they had, there was a gut feeling he had that there wasn’t really anything entirely “bad” about it all.

   It was too soon, though, as their back was shown towards Lance, concealing their face, leaving their ebony fuzz of hair sealing the rest of their identity, wisps tickling the air surrounding them. The rest of their body didn’t give that much help either, as the biker was in all black, all muted and lacking saturation.

   All left was the fact that he could make out a leather jacket, and what seemed like a white shirt underneath, something tight and black for the bottoms, with maybe some converse, that, to his absent surprise, were also pitch black.

   If things hadn’t been so. . .  off, enough, the stranger stood up and sauntered towards the cliff, and at that point, Lance didn’t know what to do, how messed up this all was, if the dude-or dudette-or what was going to die or not, like were they going to jump off? He feared he wouldn’t figure it out in time, whether he should reach out and say something and expose himself to them, possibly stop everything and anything-

   The biker sat at the end, poking their legs out over the edge, and scooting towards it to get a bit more comfortable, placing their hands behind them on the ground for support as they leaned back. It forced a relieved exhale out of Lance, though it all seemed humorous as the person even swung their legs back and forth off the edge, as if all the suspense was all for show and to test him.

   You would think that the longer Lance stood there, the more he wanted to approach this ever-so-mysterious stranger, but really, the longer this took, the more he wanted to leave. He would come again another day (most definitely the next day), as it seemed like the person wouldn’t leave or do a thing but keep kicking off the edge.

   Pondering how to turn on his heel and stroll away with silence, his ears perked up-finally-at the sound of something, humming, to be exact, something barely there, something nearly inaudible, something so quick to be broken and so delicate that it made Lance hold his breath for a second.


	4. four

  _“Shiro.”_

_“Hm.”_

_“I miss home.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“My hometown. It feels gone, though. Like I remember every single thing about it, but I feel like I forgot it all, too. I wanna hang onto it, but. I dunno. I feel like I need to find a new home too. I mean, I know I have a home somewhere in that town, but I feel like I need a more, maybe, stable one? Something more permanent. And I don’t know how to do it, ‘cause I mean, you can’t just turn something into home.”_

_“Actually, me too. But, I mean. You just don’t know it quite yet. Home can be anything, anyone, anywhere. And that’s just the beauty of it all.”_

_“Mm, maybe. It’s just sad, I guess, that everyone else seems to have one or sometimes, a whole lot, like multiple-it’s just complicated, that sometimes you know some people don’t deserve all of it, and that sometimes something inside you tells you that maybe you just deserve more.”_

_“World’s unfair, Keith. Everyone was there at some point, whether it was back then or now or probably in the future again. Everyone eventually finds one. Don’t worry about it. You’ll find a bit of home in the smallest and biggest things, and that’ll make up for the missing piece in you. And until you find your home, that’ll keep you up for now. But not forever.”_

_Keith cut the call and sighed as he dropped the phone onto he wrinkled blankets beside him. Surely Shiro would understand that he needed the time and space after all of those words because it was all he really needed. And surely, someday, someone would understand him just as well, and if not, better, and always know exactly what he needed. It felt far off, yes, but maybe something could comfort him for the moment, for a while, until someone wasn’t half bad, until something worked._

_Those who did find what he has wanted were labelled “lucky” in Keith’s book, but he wasn’t necessarily envious of them in any way. It was the kind of feeling where whenever you’d see it or hear of it, your expression defaulted into your usual expressionless frown and you’d begin to internally brood (or maybe externally, too), but accept your sad fate nonetheless._

_And although he felt unique, one-of-a-kind, with his own personality and life and opinions and style, he knew he wasn’t alone and the only lost one when it came to love. He’d remember going to theaters and seeing things online and hearing stories of fate and destiny and their “one true love” and he’s seen and witnessed about all the possible cliché scenarios you could think of, as much as he was sick of it. He thought they were cheap, dumb, unrealistic, and confusing, most of all. You wouldn’t bump into someone in the hallway and drop everything in your arms. At least for Keith, since he most probably would’ve been holding nothing and would’ve grunted or groaned or yelled at whoever he bumped into. You wouldn’t slip on a banana peel or a piece of paper on the ground or something and have someone catch you while you stare into their eyes for 5 hours, as everything around you slows down and time stops and your heartbeat is so loud you think you’re going to combust. There’s no leaning in slightly, as you drown into each other’s eyes, barely noticing anything else because you can feel their breath on you and smell it all and want to taste them so badly. There’s no blushing, no stuttering, no mumbling, no secret love letters, no heart eyes from afar or stalking them on Instagram. There’s no doodling in your notebook about dating or getting married. There’s no daydreaming that you end up doing stupid shit and being all embarrassed about it after. There’s no badass jock dude falling in love with an awkward nerd girl with braces and everything. No one cares enough to fight over anyone, much more a crush. Sure, there’s PDA and juicy drama, but other than that, things weren’t a romcom or a fairytale or a young adult novel. And as much as Keith sounded like a party pooper, all of it was forgotten, as he had his own hours for love of letting his mind wander and feeding himself unrealistic possibilities and sighing contentedly at the sound of acoustic love songs. Not that he’d allow that to slip out of his mouth and let anyone know. That was probably his number one guilty pleasure. Love songs. The acoustic, crooning ones. Don’t get him started on the ones on the ukulele._

   And although he sighed contentedly multiple times at the sight of something as breathtaking as a sunset, none of the things before had changed, except for what he thinks his home is, which is, undoubtedly, that spot right there.


End file.
